


My Only Ghost

by angstrlisity (BJW)



Category: Batfamily - Fandom, Batman - Fandom, DC Comics, Robin - Fandom
Genre: Death, Grief, Haunting, Other, Regret, ghost - Freeform, supernatural event
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7014562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BJW/pseuds/angstrlisity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Wayne is being haunted by his dead Robin's ghost. He wants to see him, but as long as he is haunted he cant find any peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Only Ghost

It's been three years since I buried Jason Todd, my son, my partner. Three years, and every day it still burns like hell. He's the last thing I think of before I sleep. He's the first thing on my mind before I even open my eyes in the morning. But some days I can't sleep, and he's the ghost that keeps me up, literally. I'm haunted by the memories of that day I found him, a broken and burned corpse. I can't find rest or know peace because he's everywhere I look. Every corner of my house has been tainted by the memories of him. The good ones. The bad ones.

Alfred tries to reason with me on the daily basis. He says I am more reckless than ever. He thinks I have a death wish now. What he doesn't know is that all of that is an understatement. I tried to burn my parents house down one night in my drunken grief. Alfred put the flame out before it took over. I had to confess why. I told him how I was haunted... by Jason's ghost... I swear on my parents grave that I can hear his voice. The soft unchanged, young voice, echoing in the large rooms of the manor, or the deep cave beneath the house. 

My heart is saddened when I remember things about him and dwell on those memories. Like how right before he died his voice had started to change. His voice would crack, and he never appreciated it when I laughed about it. As his father, I found it precious, but Jason never liked being treated with adoration. He was much too serious for that. 

But now... he's dead, and three years have gone by and yet his ghostly voice still sounds the same as before he had died: a fifteen-year-old boy's voice. Some days I swear I'll hear his faint voice mutter my name. In the dark or the day. Sometimes it's so loud, I know he's in the room with me, beside me. I turn quickly trying to catch him before his ghost, or the unknown mockingbird, flees but there's never anyone there. But I swear I feel the wind sometimes, and hear the creaking of his heavy battle boots on the wood floors, walking up from behind me. I feel his presence: his so familiar presence, but when I look, no one is there. Ever.

Alfred never hears it. He never feels it. He noticed books being left open in odd places around the house. He thought it was me, and I thought it was him and unless one of us is forgetful or insane, neither of us touched the books. The terrifying part is the books are always the ones Jason loved to read. When I became convinced it was Jason's ghost, Alfred became concerned for me and started saying that it was himself. That he left them around the house or sneaked into my room while I slept and left the book open on my nightstand, with a brown bird's feather being used as it's bookmark. But I know who it really is. I know I'm not crazy. I definitely know it's not Alfred.

I heard Jason's voice so frequently. I remember one time being so stressed out and I know he was trying to comfort me, which is something when he was living, he rarely did. Neither one of us did. But I know the voice is his... whispering. I know it is him who is always there, though he had been dead for three years.

One night while I was strongly crippled by grief of the still raging emptiness of losing Jason. I sat in front of the fireplace in my father's old chair, drinking scotch. I was deep in my thoughts when something caught my attention: the familiar ghostly voice whispering to me, again. I looked around the dark room, but I couldn't see him. But I could hear him still. I couldn't make out everything he said. But it almost sounded at times like a cry, a whimper, but I wasn't entirely sure if it was my own. I could hear him always like he's trying to tell me something. It's static whispers, talking, similar to a bad radio connection. Jason's soft calm voice sometimes becomes clear for a moment, letting me catch a few words mid sentence before it fades again, and then I heard what sounds like whimpers. Maybe it's his, maybe it's something else, or maybe it's all in my head. I was so sick of hearing it because I couldn't help him. I don't know what he's trying to tell me, so I became frustrated, and I threw my scotch into the fire place, arousing the flames for a temporary moment. I covered my ears and screamed at him. His ghost.

“Bruce.” I heard a firm loud voice. Jason's voice. 

It takes my breath away as I look around the dark room for him, rising then stepping forward nervously. “Jason?” I said, with my voice showing my nerves. “Where are you?... Son?... Are you alright?” 

He doesn't answer. He never does. 

I become quickly frustrated and impatient with this never ending routine. “Why must you torture me?... Why?... I'm sorry... For everything... I'm sorry I failed you.” I dropped to my knees in tears. “I'm sorry that it happened to you and not me... I'm sorry, Jason... But why must you torment me? Why do you haunt me? Alfred thinks I'm going insane for hearing voices in my head! But you're real!... I know you are.” I catch my breath, waiting for an answer. “If you are real, if you're a ghost, why won't you speak to him too? Why me? Why just me?...” the room is now deathly silent, except for the ticking clock, reminding me of how long he is refusing to answer me. “ANSWER ME!!” My voice screeches like glass. 

“Bruce.” I hear his quiet young male voice again. 

“Yes?...” I wait. Only hearing the crackling of the fire eating wood. “Jason?...” I give up, and return to staring at the yellow warm flame before me, but then I hear his voice again. 

“Bruce...” I look up slightly fearful feeling, which in itself is rare. “Bruce.” I rise to my feet as his voice seems to be getting closer. Clearer. 

“Where are you?” 

"Batman?" He sounds like he's searching for me, but it sounds familiar like I've heard him say it just like that before.

“Jason!?” I grasp at the air in front of me. “What is it? I'm listening.” The tears weigh heavy in my eyes before being relieved by gravity. The ghost is silent. “Jason?... Is this really you?... Or... Is this a prank?... Is this some kind of SICK PRANK!?” I throw his favorite book to the ground, breaking it's spine and cover and sending some stitched together sections flying across the floor. I hear an uproar of faint whispers, but I can't make out what he's saying, almost like his voice is echoing before and after he speaks. “Leave me alone...” I back away. “LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE, SPIRIT! STOP! STOP TALKING TO ME!!” Silence fell in the room, and a few moments later I felt him leave me. And I was ashamed that I was relieved.

After that, I didn't hear his ghostly dead whispers for three days, which was the longest ever since I started hearing him. It was early morning when I went to the library to see Jason's favorite book still lying spread across the floor. Alfred hadn't touched it for some reason. I grabbed the book and it's pieces off the floor and started to bind it back together. Crying with shame at what I had done, and what I had said to my son's ghost. But then I hear him call my name from behind me, as real as life itself and the most strong I ever heard it. "Bruce." he almost sounded sad. I jumped to my feet in fright and turned around, looking for him, but as always, he's never to be found.

"Jason?... Jason..." I waited an hour in that room, but he never answered.

Thinking back to that, which I do often, I knew something was different when he said my name. I have never forgiven myself because that was the last time I heard his ghostly voice. As much as I didn't want to believe it, I knew in my heart, that in that last meeting he was saying goodbye. Two more years have passed since. The books remain on their shelf. The voice doesn't keep me up at night or follow me by day. His ghost is gone... and that absence, the guilt I bear with wondering if he left because of me... I cannot forget, and I will not forgive myself... I'm sorry, Jason.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love for you to leave a comment about how this story made you feel!


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